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The axe and scaffold, and would madly wake
To blend thy fate with that of Ann Boleyn
And hapless Howard?
                                 True, thy pious soul
Had confidence in God, and this upheld
In all calamities, and gave thee power
To scape the snare; but yet methinks't were sad
For woman's timid love to unfold itself
Within a tyrant's breast, trusting its peace
To the sharp thunderbolt.
                                      And so farewell,
Last of the six that rashly spread their couch
In the strong lion's den.
                                       My talk with thee
Doth add new pleasure to our quiet stroll
Amid the lowly train, who, free from thoughts
Of wild ambition, hold their noiseless way.

Then toward the traveller's home, as twilight drew
Her dusky mantle o'er the face of things,
We bent our steps, with many a gathered theme
For sweet discourse, till welcome evening brought
Refreshment and repose. To our fair board
The finny people of the Ken came up,
Tempting the palate in the varied forms
Of culinary art, while with the fruits
That ripen slow'neath England's shaded skies,
Were fresh-made cheeses from the creamy bowls,
Filled by the herds that ruminate all day,